the rainy moon of all the world is weary,

and from its urn a gloomy cold pours down,

upon the pallid inmates of the mortuary,

and on the neighbouring outskirts of the town.

my wasted cat, in searching for a litter,

bestirs its mangy paws from post to post;

(a poet's soul that wanders in the gutter,

with the jaded voice of a shiv'ring ghost).

the smoking pine-log, while the drone laments,

accompanies the wheezy pendulum,

the while amidst a haze of dirty scents,

—those fatal remnants of a sick man's room—

the gallant knave of hearts and queen of spades

relate their ancient amorous escapades.